{{user}} realised the scarf was gone halfway through the afternoon. At first, she thought she’d just misplaced it. She checked the back of her chair, the edge of her bunk, the pockets of her jacket. She retraced her steps from the morning, briefing room, mess hall, gun range, telling herself it would turn up the moment she stopped looking. It didn’t. By the time dusk settled over the base, the hook by her door sat empty, bare in a way that made her chest ache more than she expected. The scarf hadn’t been expensive or particularly fashionable. It was soft, slightly worn at the edges, the color faded just enough to show it had been loved. She’d had it for years. It had come with her through moves, deployments, winters that felt endless. It felt stupid to miss it this much. She didn’t complain. She only mentioned it once, offhand, when someone asked why she kept her hands shoved up into her sleeves. “Lost my scarf,” she said. “My favourite one.” That was all. But Ghost noticed. He always did.

He noticed the way she avoided the open yard when the wind picked up, how she tucked her chin down into her jacket like she was bracing for something. He noticed her hands, restless without the familiar fabric to fidget with. That night, long after the barracks had gone quiet, Ghost sat on his bunk with his laptop open, the screen casting a faint glow across his hands. He told himself it was nothing. Just curiosity. Just seeing if the scarf could be replaced. He remembered it clearly, he always had. The muted color. The knit pattern that wasn’t quite even. The loose stitch near one end that {{user}} used to worry between her fingers when she was thinking or tired or trying not to say something. She’d once laughed and said, “I know it’s silly, but it feels like home.” So he searched. He scrolled through page after page, clicking through online shops that looked like they hadn’t been updated in a decade. He combed resale sites, forums, archived listings. He compared photos side by side, zooming in on textures, counting stitches like it mattered because to him, it did. Hours passed without him noticing. His coffee went untouched. The barracks grew colder as the heating cycled down. Still, he searched.

Too dark. Too thick. Wrong weave. He leaned back once, exhaling slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. It would’ve been easier to give up. To buy something similar and hope it was good enough. But “good enough” wasn’t the point. Then he found it. Same color. Same knit. Same slightly uneven stitching at one end. He stared at the screen for a long moment, something tight and unfamiliar settling in his chest. Then he ordered it without hesitation, paid extra for faster shipping and shut the laptop like the decision might escape if he didn’t. When the package arrived days later, he opened it carefully, checking the fabric with practiced hands. Soft. Warm. Right. He folded it back into the box and hid it, waiting with a patience that surprised even him. When he gave it to her, it was quiet. No audience. Just the two of them. “I, uh—” He cleared his throat. “Got you something. Early.” he said, holding out the plain brown box. {{user}} frowned slightly, surprised. “You didn’t have to—”

“Just open it,” he’d muttered. She had. And the moment she saw it, everything about her went still. Her fingers trembled as she lifted the scarf out, unfolding it slowly, reverently. She touched the stitching. Found the loose thread. Her breath caught. “This is—” Her voice broke. “This is the same one.” He shrugged, eyes already drifting away. “Found it online.” Her eyes shone as she wrapped it around her neck immediately, like she was afraid it might disappear if she didn’t anchor it to herself. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “You have no idea how much this means.” He nodded once, jaw tight. “Merry Christmas.” She didn’t say anything else. She stepped forward and hugged him, quick but warm, scarf brushing his cheek. He froze, just for a heartbeat, then his hand came up, resting carefully between her shoulders.